


Settling Debts

by loststardust



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Conflicted Reader, Longing, ex-relationship rekindled, how do people tag things oh my days its just spicy and cute and sexy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:46:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26182126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loststardust/pseuds/loststardust
Summary: An old relationship that you can't seem to shake and, when it comes down to it, do you even really want to?
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Original Character(s), Tommy Shelby/Reader
Comments: 12
Kudos: 65





	Settling Debts

You were twenty-six when you broke Tommy Shelby’s heart. He’d just turned thirty-two, the business in London had settled, and everything was going right again. That is, until you’d told him you couldn’t do it, you wouldn’t, not anymore. Not when he slipped further and further from you each day. Not when the Tommy you’d fallen for had changed in the process, had gotten lost between the canals and the city. 

He’d tried to offer you a ring, but you’d said no. Marriage won’t fix it, Tom. You couldn’t be a wife to a man that forgot you existed sometimes. You wouldn’t sit alone in a house, waiting for him to come home, wondering if he was even alive, while you spun the gold on your finger. It wasn’t what you wanted. So, you’d told him that and left before he could change your mind. 

It was the only time you’d been grateful of his pride. He didn’t come after you, he didn’t chase you down, his own ego wouldn’t allow him to. You’d broken his heart, and he’d let you. It was better that way. 

To say that was the end of your relations, though, would be a lie. You may have ended your relationship, but you couldn’t shift the stain Shelby business had left on your life. No-one would hire you, so you worked in their London offices. No-one would befriend you, so you drank with John, and Isaiah, when they were in town. You saw Tommy at every event, family party, and business meeting. You bumped into him when you were visiting your parents. In fact, the bitter irony of it all, was that you saw him more once you’d left him, than you ever did when you were together. But after a while it became the norm; it stopped hurting once it had. 

Then, he had gotten married. You were invited, you’d smiled as they kissed. Clapped at the speeches. Honestly, it was a good night, you were happy for them. Both of them. He’d found someone who could keep him whole, and she did so without compromising on herself — it was what he needed. That should have been cherished, it should have lasted. When she died you mourned with him. For him. You picked up the phone when he rang, but you never went to him, he never asked you to. He grieved alone.

He did the same when John went. Though, that was hard for all of you. His funeral was the one family event where you’d felt you belonged, like you’d be there even without your history with Tommy. John was your friend first.

When the trouble with Changretta was over, Tommy decided to throw a party, though it felt more like an arrangement for us to breathe. A message to the family that it was done and they could finally come up for air. It was only a small guest list, those closest to him, but somehow you made the cut. You almost didn’t believe him when he asked you to come. Me? Why? You’re family, he said, you’re one of us. After the time he’d had, the stress, the loss, you’d told him you’d be there. You’d said it with a smile like it meant something to you, like it felt nice to be included. 

The reality is that it doesn’t feel nice anymore, it feels like an obligation. A debt you didn’t know you had been paying since you’d left him. You could end things with Tommy but you could never move past him, not really, not on your own accord. 

‘You’re here,’ is how Tommy greets you on the night, his hands limp by his sides as he stands before you in the doorway. He’d come to meet you there once he’d heard the car. No hello, no smile, just a quiet acknowledgement of your arrival. 

‘Yes, Tommy,’ you answer, ‘I said I’d come.’ You look over your shoulder, gesturing to Isaiah with a jut of your chin. ‘I got a lift with your youngest and brightest Blinder. He drives well.’

Tommy nods, looking into your eyes for something you aren’t prepared to give him. 

‘Are you going to let us in?’ you ask. If he wants to stare, he can do it from the warmth of the inside, and without the company of your oblivious friend. 

‘I hope there’s food,’ Isaiah says, rubbing his hands together. He looks between you and Tommy with a grin, unaware of any difference in your behaviours. 

His statement works to reanimate your host though, and he steps aside, extending an arm into the house. ‘There’s food,’ he says, nodding again. ‘Come on, come in.’

Despite the circumstances, you are glad you came. There’s alcohol and laughing, conversations you’d never expect to hear from Shelby lips. The food’s good, the atmosphere is easy, the guests are relaxed. Everyone is grateful to be free, to feel free, to have each other still. You’ve never heard Tommy crack so many jokes, dry as they are. You’ve not seen him smile this much since he married Grace. 

When Arthur stands, announcing that he has something to say, you can’t help but snort and roll your eyes along with the rest of them. Maybe you are one of them. Maybe once you’re in, you’re never out again. Not while there’s still breath in your lungs. 

‘I’d like to make a proposal,’ Arthur booms, ‘to insist that Tommy here, takes some time off.’ 

You laugh and you aren’t the only one to do so. 

‘Time you took a holiday, Tom. Put your feet up. War’s over.’  
This one was, but all Tommy knows is war. You can see in his expression, the one beneath the smile he’s giving to his family, to Arthur, that he knows it too. It isn’t in him to rest.

‘Alright,’ he says, 'thank-you, Arthur.’ He raises his glass and the group follows. ‘To peace.’

‘Peace,’ you repeat, catching his eye. He tips his whiskey toward you and then you drink in unison, holding each other’s gaze until the line is disrupted by another figure.

It’s Polly. Her cheeks are rouged from the celebrations, her movement lagging as she sits on the arm of the chair opposite. ‘You never told me what happened to that Irishman,’ she says, ‘the one with the eyes.’ 

You laugh, letting your focus settle on her rather than the man she’s blocking. ‘I don’t have to tell you things for you to know, Pol.’

After that, the night slips away from you. It’s near twelve when you decide you’ve had enough. You say your goodbyes to everyone, working through the dwindling group, until you’re left with just Tommy and Isaiah to speak to. From the way Isaiah’s behaving, sitting loud and boisterous with Finn, it’s obvious that your driver has forgotten all about his duties. You’re already in your coat, already clutching your bag with your mind set on leaving, but seeing him laugh so happily makes you stop. It’s not too long of a journey, but enough to make you hesitate — if he’s ready to leave is one thing, if he’s in any fit state to man a car, is another entirely.

You’re too caught up in your indecision to acknowledge Tommy arriving beside you. 

‘You’re leaving?’ he asks, standing parallel, his gaze on the boys also. 

‘Trying to.’ You sigh. ‘I’m at the Midland, though I don’t think we’d make it that far.’

He clears his throat once and says, ‘Leave him be, I’ll take you back.’

‘Really?’ Your eyebrows raise, neck craning to look at him. ‘Aren’t you drunk?’

Tommy shrugs, still staring ahead. ‘Either that, or you go with him in the morning.’

After spending the night, he implies, after staying in the guest room of the house he once shared with his wife. Doors down from the nursery his son sleeps in. 

‘No,’ you decide, ‘no, I think I’ll take your first offer.’

‘Suit yourself.’ 

You explain to Isaiah, who looks very happy with the idea. Not that he didn’t want to take you, of course, not that you were ever a bother to him. You watch him scramble to backtrack with an amused smile. 

‘I love driving you places, really,’ he stresses. ‘I just meant it’s great to—‘

‘Siah, it’s fine. Honestly.’ You laugh, letting him cling to your hand still. ‘Just have a good night, yeah? Don’t over-do it.’ 

He agrees, nodding wildly, then goes back to Finn with a fresh set of bottles under his arm. 

After waving goodbye, again, to the room, you follow Tommy down the hall to the door. He takes his coat from the hook, pulling it on as you hurry to catch up to him. For someone so keen to have you there in the first place, he was certainly in a rush to show you out now. 

It’s only once you’ve both stepped out into the cold, that you realise it isn’t the case at all. He isn’t keen to leave, just keen to have you alone, to have you by himself with nothing but the quiet and the night. 

You’re behind him at first, but when you step down onto the gravel, he turns so quickly that you’re toe-to-toe before you can move out of the way. 

‘Tom—‘ 

Your surprise is cut off by his lips. He has your face in his hands, his thumbs holding you steady by the curve of your cheeks. He’s kissing you. He’s kissing you and it takes you so long to realise, that he pulls back before you can respond to it. You can feel him watching you, waiting for a hint, but your eyes fall to the floor. Your fingertips ghost over your mouth.

Dropping his chin, he steps away and reaches into his pocket for a cigarette. There’s a quiet between you now that neither wants to break. You don’t think either of you know how to, or what to say. You’re still trying to work out if you should have kissed him back. 

After what feels like a lifetime, but is really only long enough for half of the cigarette to burn away between his lips, Tommy clears his throat and speaks again. ‘Right, shall we go?’

It’s forgotten to him, then. He’s already buried the kiss under the list of things that happened, and then didn’t happen, and now will never be spoken of. You aren’t sure you can afford him the luxury this time. 

‘Is that why you asked me here, Tommy?’ you ask, quietly, like you’re embarrassed by it. You aren’t, of course, you’re just more worried that you’re being assumptive. That he won’t react well to it. 

He directs his smoke upwards, turning in the last minute to shrug his eyebrows at you. ‘Forget it, right? Didn’t happen.’

Except that it did, and the more you think about it, the more you wish it had continued. Or hadn’t begun at all. The conflict bites at your throat. One second, you find yourself wanting him for the nostalgia of it, but then in the next, reason corrects you. You know what he’s like. He’s just looking for comfort, something to take the edge off. Something that’ll last longer than booze and drugs. 

‘You kissed me, Tom.’

He sighs, his face is pointed to dark sky. ‘Yes, I did.’

‘I can’t be that person,’ you say. You’re reminding him as much as yourself. ‘I know it’s been hard but I can’t, that hasn’t changed.’ 

‘Have I asked anything of you?’ he replies dryly, then his head straightens and he redirects his gaze to yours. ‘Tell me, who have I asked you to be, eh? Hm?’

You chew the inside of your lip. He’s getting irritated, and once he does the conversation will go nowhere. He’s too stubborn. Too full of pride, and ego, and denial. Too Tommy to make progress. 

’It’s just a kiss, [y/n].’ He can insist all he likes, but you know he’s lying. He wouldn’t kiss you just for the sake of it. At least, not like that. 

‘Fine.’ You lift your bag from where it was dangling and set the strap back onto your shoulder. ‘So take me home.’

He doesn’t move, he just looks away again and takes another drag from his cigarette. 

Sighing, you rub at your forehead, closing your eyes to save them from staring at him any longer. This was exactly what you feared. Every time you saw him, every time you ended up alone together, you were worried he’d do something like that. Worried he’d undo all the work you’d put in, take down the walls with one stupid, boyish, action. It was always a likelihood — now it was reality. You don’t want to go back to how you were, you’re happy separate from him. But, fuck, he doesn’t half make it difficult. You never question your resolve quite as much as you do when he’s close by. 

‘I’m sorry, alright?’ He breaks your train of thought, grumbling the words into the dark. ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’ 

‘What?’ You scoff before you’ve even opened your eyes. When you do look at him, you almost expect him to be smiling, but he’s serious. His expression’s hard. ‘Are you apologising, Tommy?’

His jaw sets. Then, he nods. 

‘Wow.’ You smile accidentally. ‘That’s new.’

Shaking his head, he laughs to himself, though there’s no humour in it. It’s one of those disbelieving laughs that’s always grated you the wrong way. ‘Always fuckin’ fighting me,’ he says. 

‘I don’t,’ you reply sharply. ‘I’m not.’ 

‘You don’t trust me anymore, do you?’ he asks, half-smiling, like he’s finally solved the riddle that’s been plaguing him. ‘That’s what it is. After all this, after everything, you don’t trust me.’

You fold your arms over yourself. ‘I don’t trust anyone,’ you quip. ‘Don’t take it personally.’ His swerve in topic has caught you off-guard, and the response that you’d intended to reassure him, had come out so quickly that it looked more like a lie than anything else would’ve. ‘Surely you know what that’s like, Tom?’

‘We’re not talking ‘bout me.’ He finishes his smoke and flicks the butt away from him. ‘You don’t trust me,’ he says, pointing at you, ‘and that’s why I can’t kiss you, at me own party, without a fuckin’ inquisition about it.’ 

‘That’s not true.’

‘No?’ 

His smugness is starting to get to you. Everything you’ve ever said, years ago and now, has gone right over his head. It’s barely even grazed the surface. ’God,’ you sneer, letting your irritation take the reins, ‘you really are insufferable.’

‘Yeah.’ He scoffs, nodding. ‘Yeah, but you still came.’

The tension in your chest snaps. Any grip you had on civility is lost, tossed aside into the stones of the driveway. 

‘Because I feel guilty, Tommy, because I left and your life has gone to shit ever since.’ Your voice is straining in your throat, but you aren’t shouting. Not yet. ‘Do you think I’d even be here,’ you continue, 'if I didn’t feel like I had to be? Like I owed it to you to say yes?’ 

‘Owed it to me?’

‘Yes, fucking owed, Tommy. We broke up years ago and I’m still here.’ You hadn’t gotten away yet because he hadn’t let you, he pulled you back every time the distance grew. 

Opposite, he’s unmoving. His face is blank to your outburst. He just stands there and takes it, like you haven’t dowsed him in undeserving pity. Like you haven’t just taken his hospitality, his loyalty, and thrown it back in his face like you hated him for it. His lack of response is enough to send you tumbling into self-reflection. 

‘Fuck!’ You turn away from him, then back again before the regret can sink any deeper. ‘Fuck, sorry. Sorry, Tom, I shouldn’t have said any of that.’ 

At that moment, at that exact, horrible, moment, your solitude is disturbed. In a clutter of noise, Arthur comes tumbling out of the house, gun raised and pointed vaguely in the direction of the both of you. If it were any one else, you’d be scared, but it’s just him; just Arthur and his habits. 

‘Who the fuck’s this?’ he spits, his words bleeding into one another. 

‘Arthur?’ Tommy is first to respond, lifting his hands. ‘Christ, put the fucking gun down.’

‘Oh.’ Realisation stops him dead. ‘I thought you’d gone, Tom,’ he says, quieter but no clearer. His arm lowers sheepishly. He’s so drunk he can’t even stand straight, he sways as he talks. ‘I heard shouting,’ he explains.

’S’alright, brother,’ Tommy says, voice tight. He’s using that tone that he so often does with Arthur. It’s somewhere between condescension and thin, waining patience. ‘Go back inside, eh?’

‘We were just talking,’ you add, hoping it’ll help to usher him away. ‘Everything’s fine.’

‘Right, right, yeah, course.’ He’s nodding, and waving the gun at you like it’s no different from his hand. ‘Shouldn’t have assumed.’

‘It’s okay.’ You smile at him though you doubt he can even see it through the dark and the blur of the alcohol. Out the corner of your eye, you notice Tommy turning away from him, sighing with his hands pressed to his face. 

Arthur just stands there, rambling. ‘Beautiful night, though, beautiful,’ he says.

‘It is,’ you agree, looking between him and Tommy. ‘Sorry, Arthur, we were—‘

‘Yep,’ he barks, interrupting you suddenly. ‘I know, I know, hm, as you were.’ With that he’s away, holding his hands above his head in surrender, keeping them there even once his back’s turned. 

You watch him until you cant see him anymore, until the door shuts and you’re alone again, in the silence with Tommy. The previous tension has dissipated, dropped and sunken into the ground beneath. In the quiet, it seems stupid to attempt to carry on with the conversation, you can hardly remember how it had gotten to that point in the first place. 

‘I don’t think we’ll ever get anywhere like this, Tommy,’ you say, finally turning back to him. He nods, while his hands push his hair into place, smoothing it over more times than necessary. ‘I am sorry for what I said,’ you add, still feeling the guilt twinge in your stomach. 

‘No.’ He shakes his head, pouting slightly. ‘No, you’ve nothing to say sorry for, it’s not your fault.’ His hands tuck into his pockets, his eyelids droop. He looks tired. Whether it’s from you, or the night, you can’t tell. ‘I’m the one who’s cursed,’ he says.

‘I don’t believe that.’

‘You’re the only one.’

‘Tom.’ You find yourself stepping toward him, your hand reaching for his arm. When it settles on his bicep, just above the elbow, his gaze follows it. ‘You aren’t cursed,’ you tell him, ‘you’re just…’ Unlucky? Destructive? There isn’t really a word for it, at least not one that will make him feel any better.

He huffs a breath through his nose. ‘It’s alright,’ he says. ‘You don’t have to.’

You nod. You pull your hand back and hold yourself instead. The empty silence that seems to linger around the two of you is back, though this time it’s sad. Bleak. If there was ever a moment where you felt truly alienated from him, it was now, you were living it. Or, at least, that’s what you suppose it is. You’ve never felt anything like it. He’s looking at you as if he understands at last what was lost between you, like he’s only now realised that you’ve gone. The ache you felt that day has finally been passed onto him. Maybe it’s relief, then, not alienation. He understands and he isn’t bitter, he’s sad. 

‘Do you regret it?’ he asks. ‘Leaving?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ you answer quietly. ‘It was the right thing at the time.’

He wets his lips. ‘And now?’

‘Don’t ask me that.’ Your voice cracks slightly. You shake your head like it’ll stop the thought from latching. If you shut it down fast enough, it won’t do any damage, it won’t make you consider. 

‘Already have,’ he says. He’s looking for that something again, that hint of desire in your eyes. He stares in wait of it. 

You can’t find an answer — your tongue has swallowed itself whole. There’s nothing to push him back, nothing to stop the hope he’s starting to build. He needs telling no, but you can’t find it within yourself to do so, you can’t blink the idea of it back. 

‘I’m taking time off,’ he starts as he steps toward you, palms open and reaching. ‘Spend it with me,’ he says. ‘We can go on the road, eh? You and me, travelling. We can see your cousins in Wales.’

‘Tommy…’ 

‘Or London, we can go back to London.’

‘Tommy.’ You stop him before he picks up anymore momentum, your hand pushing flat against his chest. ‘You’re going too fast.’

‘It’s nothing we haven’t done before,’ he counters.

‘We haven’t even, I mean, we can barely keep a conversation, Tom. I don’t know.’

‘Well, let’s start with that,’ he says, ‘let’s talk.’ He’s stepping closer still, his hands have taken your waist, and he’s looking at your lips. Just your lips. 

‘Talk?’ you mirror, feeling the air catch in your throat afterwards. You’re chest-to-chest now, and his eyes still haven’t lifted. If he were any closer you’d feel his heart beat with your own.

‘Just talk,’ he insists. His voice is low, dragging. ‘We never talk.’ 

He’s saying things he doesn’t mean. He’s moved a hand to your face, his fingertips trace the line of your cheekbone, just below your eye. He’s close and he’s soft, and he’s Tommy. He’s always Tommy, your Tommy. 

‘I can’t think like this,’ you say quickly, softly, too nervous to add any force to the words. ‘I can’t go away with you.’

‘I know,’ he murmurs, eyes flitting across every inch of your face. He’s drinking you in. He’s missed you, you can see it, you can feel it in how he’s holding you. He’s cherishing it all over again, taking stock of what he lost. Once he’s satisfied, he closes the gap between you and pushes his mouth on yours. 

He kisses you and this time you kiss him back. 

You melt into it, letting him part your lips with the edge of his tongue. Your arms go around his neck, your fingers to the back of his head. You kiss him like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like you’d never stopped doing it. It’s wrong. It can only ever be bad, for you, for him, but you’re doing it. You want it. It fills you with a warmth you’d long forgotten. The taste of him slips down your throat like liquor, burning the sides. Stifling the chatter in your head. 

All too soon, he pulls back, dragging your bottom lip with him before letting go. His head tilts, forehead resting against yours, breath shaky and fogging between your two mouths. ‘Don’t go to the hotel,’ he says. His voice breaks from his throat in a coarse whisper. ‘Stay here, with me.’

‘You don’t mean that,’ you tell him. ‘You’re drunk.’ You feel drunk yourself, you lean on him like you’d fall without the support. 

‘I’m not.’ He kisses you again and you meet him there, your tongue daring to taste his this time, your lead the one that’s followed.

You let him walk you back, let him put you between him and the wall of the house. His hands are on your face, and then your neck, and then down your sides like he can’t settle. Like he’s desperate to touch every part of you before you disappear again. The kiss breaks and then he’s covering you in them, leaving them wherever he can think to. 

‘Tom,’ you whine, ‘we can’t.’

‘Stay,’ he breathes, hiding the word behind your ear. Trailing it down your neck. ‘Stay for now. Stay.’

You sigh his name. ‘Can’t we just say goodnight?’

‘Do you want that?’ His nose brushes your jaw, his lips settle beneath. You sink against the wall. 

‘We shouldn’t—’ the sentence is stolen from you, staccato from the feeling of his teeth against your skin. It’s getting harder to let reason win, the more he touches you, the less you care. The more you want. Groaning, you force your eyes open. ‘Tommy.’ 

He responds quickly, lifting his head to meet you. His palm sits at the base of your throat, not holding, just touching. ‘I’ll stop,’ he says, ‘do you want me to stop?’

The answer should be yes. Any other day it would be, it would be Goodnight, Tommy. Take me home, Tommy. But you can’t say it. You can’t lie to yourself, or to him. You want him to carry on. You want him to kiss you like he loves you, like he’s desperate. You want him to take you into his big house, to adore you, to fuck you like you never broke his heart. Or maybe like you did. It’s weakness, it’s a failure to yourself and your dignity, but, God, you don’t care. You can’t force yourself to.

‘[Y/n]?’ Tommy’s still waiting for his answer, still holding his breath as he watches you think. 

You start to shake your head, but desire interrupts. You kiss him and then he knows. Then his hands go back to your waist, pulling you in, pulling you to the side, pulling you around the wall and backwards toward the steps. It’s clumsy, you stumble with him. Your teeth knock together as you move. 

‘A bed,’ you say, panting in the breaks apart. ‘Not downstairs, not like a whore.’ 

He nods against your lips, his arm reaching behind to push the door open. The warmth folds over you, drowning you. You hadn’t realised how cold it was until you’re in the house again.

You pull away from each other to get upstairs; he walks in front of you with his hand trailing behind, fingers interlocked with yours. You don’t know where everyone else is, but you don’t care, you’re so trained on Tommy that the stairs could be on fire and you wouldn’t even know. From the heat that creeps down your legs, they very well could be. 

On the landing, you’re reunited again. Kissing, grabbing, chasing each other toward the bedroom like you’re newlyweds. He takes your coat off, leaves it by the door. You push his back from his shoulders and let gravity do the rest. 

There’s no time to talk, not properly; no space between you is kept long enough to allow words to fall. You devour each other, peel back the layers of clothing, shed the years of discomfort. You let him kiss you, invite him to taste what he’s missed. When he lays you down, you open yourself up to him, you hold him close like you would’ve when you were twenty-five. 

‘I should’ve stopped you,’ he says against your stomach. His hair is messy, like it never is, the dark twists brush your skin. ‘When you went, I should’ve gone with you.’

‘No,’ you tell him, ‘you shouldn’t.’ 

Everything that happened, still led to this. If it wasn’t broken you’d have nothing to put back together. You’d kiss and it would be empty. 

‘Stop thinking, Tom.’ 

You cup his cheek and pull him upwards until he’s above you. His skin sticks to yours, his heartbeat thumps against you like its your own. He kisses you and he doesn’t stop. You don’t let him.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! A new spicy tommy fic for all my lovelies. 
> 
> Also, I was wondering if there were people who would like me to post more things to Ao3, as well as to tumblr (blinder-secrets)? I post a lot more writing on there, but have been considering uploading those works here too, if people would like that? I know there must be people that don't use tumblr so please let me know what you think!


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